


To Say These Words

by braveandthebold



Category: Batman - All Media Types, Batman v Superman: Dawn of Justice, DC Cinematic Universe, DCU, Superman - All Media Types
Genre: 5+1 Things, Apologies, Bruce is a broody motherfucker, M/M, Mentions of Death, Mentions of Jason Todd - Freeform, Panic Attacks, Slow Burn
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-08-09
Updated: 2016-08-09
Packaged: 2018-08-07 15:15:28
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: Major Character Death
Chapters: 1
Words: 10,631
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/7719715
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/braveandthebold/pseuds/braveandthebold
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>5 ways in which Bruce apologizes but doesn’t outright say it, and the one time Clark beats him to it.</p>
            </blockquote>





	To Say These Words

**Author's Note:**

> *GASPS* SHE'S BACK! SHE'S ALIVE! HALLELUJAH!
> 
> Yes, I am alive and well, and I do have an explanation for my unexplained hiatus: I started college a year ago. And well, life got hectic. Writing got put on the back burner, and figuring out what I wanted to do with my life become my #1 priority. 
> 
> I don't know if I'll ever get back to [From the Flames](http://archiveofourown.org/works/3402329/chapters/7448516). The last chapter *is* sitting on my computer in a dusty old folder, so I do apologize for that. Until my life starts to normalize a bit, it'll probably be a long time before I finish that last chapter. I'll still post a fic every now and then, but it'll be a little more sporadic.
> 
> BUT I did want to put one fic out there before I leave for my second year of college, so enjoy!

**1.** **I’m sorry I tried to take you away from your mother, the one person who needed you the most in this world.**

Two years and three months. That’s how long it’s been since Superman died. That’s how long it’s been since Bruce watched, from a distance, as they lowered Clark Kent’s casket into the earth, looked down upon by a grieving mother and a broken-hearted fiancé. That’s also how long it takes for Clark Kent to crawl out of his own grave and pass out on his house’s front porch, covered in dirt and grime and in need of a much overdue haircut.

Martha had called Bruce in hysterics. She thought she was seeing things that shouldn’t be there, that she was finally going crazy after all the grief and crying (she never told Bruce, but he knows she used to sleep in Clark’s bed, on the days when it was so bad and it felt like she was forgetting her son all over again). He came as soon as he heard. He needed to confirm it for himself, because like Martha, he too was seeing ghosts that weren’t there. A swish of a curtain or a breeze in the wind was enough to remind him of that billowing red cape, fluttering in the air like it had a mind of its own. Maybe it was his punishment, for creating the weapon that aided in killing Martha Kent’s only son.  

But no, this was the real deal. Superman was alive and well, and most importantly, he was back. Well, not officially. He wouldn’t be saving the world or appearing on national news any time soon. Bruce wouldn’t say he’s hiding. More like… recuperating. Physically he was okay. Just a little sunlight and that was all he needed to get his strength back. Mentally though? That part might take a while. The world may be ready for Superman, but Superman wasn’t quite ready to take on the entire world just yet.  

And Bruce visits when he can. Mainly to check up on Martha, and sometimes Clark (he tells himself it’s mainly for Martha). She welcomes him with open arms and a warm meal waiting on the table every time. He even brought Diana once, who had hugged Clark like they were soldiers in arms. It was quite heartwarming to watch.

“Will you be returning to Metropolis?” Diana had asked.

“Eventually. Not yet. I… I need more time,” Clark winced, knowing full well how unconvincing his answer sounded.

She took his hands in hers and gave a reassuring squeeze. “Of course, whatever you need. My apologies, I did not mean to push. I am just happy you are back, Clark Kent.” His face had gone a little funny at that, but the moment passes as soon as it comes. Even now, his face will make that funny sort of expression. But Bruce doesn’t push, because it’s not his place. If Clark needs him to be a shoulder to lean on, then Bruce will be just that. But Clark hasn’t asked, and so Bruce doesn’t answer.  

. 

No matter how many times Bruce comes to Smallville, he’s always amazed by how clear the night sky looks. It’s such a stark contrast compared to Gotham’s own polluted sky.

He didn’t think sitting out here on the Kent’s front porch would become his favorite activity, but over time, he had grown used to it. Sometimes he and Martha ate dinner out here, watching the stars and reminiscing over tales of a young Clark Kent. It was moments like those when Bruce almost forgot how he tried to kill that little boy from Kansas. But the pain always returned, reminding him that not only had he tried to hurt Clark, but his mother too.

Now, through some miracle of God, it’s Clark who sits on the porch next to Bruce, with their knees and elbows brushing against each other but never quite touching. It brings a deep ache to Bruce’s heart, knowing he can never have that warmth for himself. Such a selfish thought.

“Thank you,” Clark says, so quiet his words almost get carried along with the passing breeze.

“You don’t have to thank me,” Bruce replies, trying not show how shaken up he is. _I should be the one thanking you, not the other way around._

“No, Bruce…” Clark turns to face him. “I mean it, thank you. If it weren’t for you, mom wouldn’t be laughing and smiling the way she is now.” His hand twitches forward like it wants to grab Bruce’s, but then he settles it on his lap instead.

“Your mother would have been fine without me.” That’s a lie, and he knows it.

Clark laughs softly. “Why can’t you ever just accept a thank you for what it is?” And then he smiles, so warm and bright that Bruce almost has to look away.

He swallows past the lump in his throat. “It’s the least I could do, after everything that happened. After I…” He trails off, unsure of how to finish that. Instead he looks back up at the sky, breathes in the night air, and wishes he could be up there with the stars and become one with the darkness. It’s easier that way.

  

**2. I’m sorry I lost my faith in my humanity. But most importantly: I’m sorry I lost my faith in _you_.**

Another day, another corrupted politician. Bruce has grown used to all the crime, greed and corruption. To him, it’s just another day. To Clark, it’s injustice.

“How can they let something like this happen? The reporter clearly just stated that he’s been embezzling money for three years, and it took the police until _now_ to arrest him.” Clark shakes his head at the TV, disgusted. Except it’s hard to take him seriously when the TV still has _antennas_ and he’s sitting on a couch so old, there probably isn’t any padding left. Bruce had offered to replace everything, but Martha just laughed and shook her head. “You millionaires must have nothing better to do with your time, if you’re going out of your way to visit an old lady all the way out in Kansas. Excuse me, _billionaire_.”

“That’s Gotham City for you. Beautiful, isn’t it?” Bruce almost wants to laugh at it all. It’s so ridiculous, how this has become such an integral part of his city, the very place he calls home. 

He doesn’t realize he’s actually laughing—although it’s more of a low intake of breath—until Clark’s staring at him, mouth open in a small ‘o’ and eyes wide like he was viewing something new for the first time. Which, Bruce belatedly realizes, he is.

“Doesn’t this… upset you?” Clark asks, voice lilting up towards the end to show his disbelief at Bruce’s reaction.

He shrugs lazily. “At one point, yes.”

“But..?” Clark prompts, noticing the empty space Bruce leaves at the end. There’s more to the answer than that. There has to be.

He shrugs again. “But nothing.”

Clark gives him a look. “Oh come on, you’re telling me you don’t get angry at the injustice of it all? Not even the slightest bit angry?”

Bruce mulls over that for a moment. “At one point, yes. But that was a long time ago.” It really wasn’t so long ago that Bruce was that angry man, so fed up with the world and the way humanity continued to treat it. That anger caused him to lash out in more ways than one, from alcohol abuse to trying to kill a godly being to prove a point. “But things are different now,” Bruce says as he settles back in his armchair. “Men are still good, despite what the world may try to tell us.” He tilts his head and gives the TV a considering look. “Yes, men are still good,” he murmurs, remembering his conversation with Diana as they stood from a distance, just watching.

 _I’ve failed him in life. I won’t fail him in death_.

“Is that why you formed the Justice League?”

They’ve never actually discussed this. Yes, he and Diana have explained to Clark the gist of the Justice League and what they stand for, and yes, he’s met all the members (Barry practically peed himself). But Clark has never just outright asked _why_. Why of all people did _you_ decide to form the Justice League? Why are _you_ leading it? The Bruce from two years ago would have asked the same thing, but the Bruce now has changed. He has hope. He has to believe there’s still hope for humanity. That’s what Superman stands for, and that’s why he formed the Justice League.  

Of course he doesn’t say all of that. “ _I_ didn’t form it. You’re forgetting Diana played a crucial part as well.” It’s enough to appease Clark for now without giving away Bruce’s true feelings. 

Clark chuckles softly. “No, no. I haven’t forgotten.”

He can sense Clark’s gaze on him, but when he glances at him, Clark’s eyes have glued themselves back to the TV. His mouth is still curled in disgust, but there’s a softer edge to it, almost like he’s smiling but trying hard not to. His eyes are gleaming just a little more than before, and Bruce finds himself wishing he could pull off a look like that. He hopes one day he can.

 

 **3.** **I’m sorry you had to go through life and death all over again. It shouldn’t have happened that way. I shouldn’t have tried to take that right away from you.**

He wakes up one morning to find Clark sitting at his kitchen counter, laughing at something Alfred’s just said. Bruce freezes, because one, Clark is _sitting at his kitchen counter_ , and two, his hair is a ruffled mess of curls that he probably didn’t have the time to fix as he flew over here. He wonders how thick Clark’s hair gets during the summer time. Maybe he grows it out and lets it fall to his shoulders. Would he a grow a beard too, just to make himself appear slightly more rugged and slightly less boyish looking?

(And then those thoughts expand into a shirtless, sweaty Clark carrying a bale of hay and Bruce needs to re-circuit his brain immediately.)

“Master Bruce, if you continue to stand there I’m afraid I’m going to have to give away your breakfast to Master Clark,” Alfred says over his shoulder. He’s always been able to sense Bruce’s presence when others couldn’t. Even Clark looks slightly surprised by Bruce’s frame taking up half the kitchen’s entrance.

Clark clears his throat, suddenly aware of the fact that he’s sitting in Bruce’s house and may have just broken, like, a lot of boundaries. “Um, I was… in the neighborhood?”

“I see.” Bruce finds he’s less surprised and more suspicious by Clark’s sudden visit, because Clark hasn’t left his house in three months. If he’s here, it means he wants something.

“Alfred made bacon. And pancakes, so if you want…”

He almost feels bad for Clark. Almost. “I don’t eat breakfast, so help yourself to seconds if you want,” Bruce waves off. As if on cue, Alfred holds out a green protein shake.

“Don’t tell me that’s all you’re having,” Clark frowns.

“Master Bruce keeps to a very strict diet in order to maintain the weight and muscle mass he needs,” Alfred explains.

Clark looks doubtful at the concept of liquid mush acting as a source of sustenance. “Well, more for me then I guess.” He shovels down the rest of his bacon and holds his plate out for seconds.

Bruce stands across from Clark, taking in the absolute ridiculousness of the scene before him. This is his life now. He wakes up to a Kryptonian alien, who has the power to decimate the entire human race to ash, and yet here he is eating pancakes and bacon in Bruce’s kitchen. And somehow Bruce is completely unfazed by it all. His eyes wander down, and he can see Clark’s bare feet peeking out from underneath his worn out jeans. They’re folded at the cuffs, which just seems all the more ridiculous to Bruce. He can’t picture clothes ever looking too large on someone like Clark, who tends to fill out his clothes completely.

A door opens and shuts. “Bruce? Alfred?”

Clark looks bewildered, Bruce just grimaces. _It is way too early for this_ , he sighs inwardly. “In here,” he calls back, already growing weary. In the last few seconds before his life all but implodes before his very eyes, he’s managed to come up with at least ten different scenarios of how Dick would react to a very not dead Superman. At least half of them end in Dick being furious with Bruce for keeping him out of the loop, _again_.

Dick pops his head into the kitchen and looks straight at Bruce. “Why aren’t you answering your phone?” He asks, completely forgoing normal greetings like, ‘Hey, good morning! How are you?’

“It’s dead,” he answers flatly.

Dick looks to Alfred for confirmation, who nods solemnly. “Huh. Anyways.” He looks back at Bruce. His mouth is set in a grim line. “Jason’s tearing apart the city again. I need your help.”

Bruce merely raises an eyebrow. He applauds himself for not overreacting at that. If this were a year ago, he’d be an emotional mess just for hearing Jason’s name thrown around like that.

“Please?” Dick pleads.

“If he hasn’t killed anyone yet, I don’t care,” Bruce says dismissively.

“He’s your son,” Dick shoots back.

“He’s not my son,” Bruce grumbles into his protein shake. “I think he made that perfectly clear from day one.”

“Are we talking about when you first took him in, or when he decided to go and play the Jesus card?”

Bruce just glares. Thankfully it’s Alfred who steps in and saves the day. “Master Dick, I believe you haven’t met Master Clark yet.”

For the first time since arriving, Dick actually takes notice of another presence in the kitchen. He does a double take. “Woah! Wait, aren’t you _dead_?”

Clark, who’s been awfully silent this whole time, doesn’t seem too fazed by the fact that someone’s recognized him outside of the uniform. He hasn’t exactly made an effort to keep Clark Kent and Superman separate as of late. “I was,” he nods.

“Huh,” Dick repeats, rolling that around in his head. He seems to remember his manners and sticks out his hand. “Richard Grayson. Call me Dick.”

“Uh, Clark Kent.”

“So does the world know Superman’s back yet?”

“Not… yet,” Clark answers, a little thrown off by the question. He clears his throat. “I’m taking a bit of a… personal leave.”

“Cool, cool. Well, if you feel up to it, stop by Bludhaven. Lots of crime there. Wait, you know where Bludhaven is, right?”

“Weren’t you leaving?” Bruce cuts in before Dick can start a whole interrogation with Clark. Beside him Alfred hisses disapprovingly, “ _Master Bruce_.”

“Hell no! Not when Superman is _literally sitting in your house_ ,” Dick says. The ‘And when were you going to tell me this?’ goes unsaid. But there are no explosions. Dick’s taking this surprisingly well actually. “And besides, you still haven’t answered my question yet.” He crosses his arms. “So are you going to help me or not?”

Bruce gives a long, suffering sigh. “I’ll see what I can do,” he answers, if not a bit grudgingly. That’s only for show though, because he can never say no to Dick. Even if he murdered someone and asked Bruce to help bury the body, he would still say yes in a heartbeat.

Dick smiles gratefully. “Cool, thanks Bruce.”

“Master Dick, won’t you stay for breakfast?” Alfred asks as Dick starts to leave. Bruce can feel himself tensing up at that. Alfred would never admit it, but he’s always been a bit disappointed in Bruce for not chasing after Dick like he should have. In truth, it was a culmination of many things that led to Dick quitting and leaving behind the Robin persona for good. But if asked, Bruce would say Dick left because he needed the independence to grow and become the man he needed to be. If pressed further on the issue, Bruce might even say he was glad Dick quit in the end, because it meant he wouldn’t get hurt while under Bruce’s metaphorical wing (if only he had learned his lesson with the second Robin, when it mattered the most). 

Dick considers that suggestion, then shrugs and says, “Why not.” He pushes past Bruce and takes the offered plate of food. And then he pivots back around, pushes past Bruce _again_ and walks back the way he came. “Meet me downstairs when you guys are finished adulting,” he says to Bruce, “I wanna show you some footage I got from the other night.” His footsteps echo down the hall until they’re out of hearing range.

“That was… unexpected,” Clark says after a while, once things start back into motion and it’s back to everyday life again.

Bruce grunts. “Sorry for Dick, he can be kind of… loud.”

“No it’s fine, I just… wasn’t expecting that,” Clark says again. At some point, Alfred had decided to leave them alone in the kitchen. No doubt to check up on Dick and make sure he hasn’t disappeared again. Like he always does, whenever Bruce’s patience has run thin and Dick isn’t in the mood to deal with it. They’re healing. Slowly. 

“So you have a son,” Clark says, the statement sounding enough like there could be a question mark at the end, except he’s trying to come to an understanding of what he’s just witnessed. Bruce waits, patient. “You never said you had a son.”

 _You never asked_. “Two, actually. The one currently stealing food from my house is my oldest. The second one is, as you heard, more of a problem child. They’re both adopted of course.” He doesn’t know why he adds that last part. It’s not like he has to explain himself to Clark. Bruce’s business is his own. So what if Clark thinks they’re his biological sons?

Clark gets this faraway look in his eyes, and it’s clear he’s not really listening to Bruce anymore. “So even you’ve got people like that in your life,” he muses softly to himself, picking at the leftovers on his plate. For a moment, he looks so lost and alone. It’s frightening, and yet so very human at the same time.

“We all do, Clark. It’s not just me,” Bruce says. He puts his empty glass in the sink, then makes his way around the countertop till he’s standing in front of Clark. “And if I recall, you have a fiancé waiting for you too,” he reminds him gently. This is the first time he’s mentioned anything about Lois. Really, it should be the other way around. Bruce shouldn’t have to be the one reminding Clark of this. 

“Do you think… do you think she would want to see me?” Clark asks, and there’s something so childlike in the way he phrases that.

Bruce doesn’t know actually. Ever since Clark came back, he’s stopped keeping tabs on Lois Lane. He figures if Clark wants to know, he’ll find out for himself. _Of course she would, you idiot_ , Bruce doesn’t say. What he does say is, “Once you love someone, you never really forget them.” Then he pats Clark on the shoulder and walks away.

It’s barely audible, but Bruce hears it anyways. He may not have super hearing, but he’s at least trained himself to hear what most people can’t.

“But what happens when they _do_ forget you?”

 _I would never forget you_. _You’re not that easy to forget, not when you’ve been haunting my dreams every single night._

.

Bruce expected Clark to be gone by the time he finished his business with Dick. But he’s still here, sitting on one of the couches with a book in hand, his legs curled into his side and a blanket covering him from the waist down. Alfred must have given it to him.

He takes a moment to just stare at Clark, and it’s like breakfast all over again. He looks so at home, despite the fact that the lake house is the least homely place ever. The only part of the lake house Bruce really considers home is the Bat Cave. It’s the one place he’s managed to replicate from Wayne Manor. Everything else is just… there.

Clark looks up and smiles at him. Bruce almost recoils at how bright and genuine it is. He certainly wasn’t that way when Bruce left him by himself in the kitchen. He shakes out of his stupor and sits on the couch opposite Clark. A quick glance at the book cover tells him it’s _Romeo and Juliet_. He smirks. “I always pegged you for a romantic.”

Clark blinks, then turns the book over so the cover’s facing him. He smiles again. “It’s one of my favorites actually.”

“Hmm,” Bruce hums as he picks up the latest newspaper on the coffee table. It’s placed in a very conspicuous manner, folded halfway with the date and headline glaring up at him. Seriously, bless Alfred’s heart. If it weren’t for him, this place would fall apart.

“Um, I hope you don’t mind that I’m here. I wasn’t sure whether to wait for you or go, but Alfred…”

Ah, so it was Alfred. Despite Bruce’s protests, Alfred still liked to believe he was lonely without the presence of another Robin. But he’s learned to embrace the loneliness, because that’s just who he is. Everyone he cares about dies or leaves eventually. Clark being the exception, but he couldn’t have known that at the time.

Bruce waves off Clark’s clumsy explanation. “Stay as long as you want. I don’t really have anything to do today.” Which is true, he doesn’t. He doesn’t have to be down at the office, and there’s no new bad guy on the streets that Batman hasn’t put away in Arkham yet. Aside from the nightly patrols, he’s as free as a bird. Clark could stay for a whole week if he wanted.

“Um, Bruce?”

“Yes Clark?” He says like he’s answering a child’s insistent questioning.

“Could you... could you tell me more? About your sons?”

The corner of Bruce’s page lingers in the air for a few seconds, and then he flips over to the next page. _BRUCE WAYNE DONATES $XXXXXX.XX TO XXXXXX CHARITY_ reads the headline on page two.

“Only if you want to! That is…”

Bruce pretends to be interested in the article he’s not really reading before folding over the newspaper and placing it on the arm of the couch. Clark’s face has become an interesting shade of red. It’s obvious he must have worked up a lot of courage to ask that.

He folds his hands in his lap. “What would you like to know?”

Slowly, the red disappears from Clark’s face only to be replaced with shock. He probably didn’t expect Bruce to even acknowledge his question. To be fair, Bruce wasn’t expecting it either.

“Anything. Just… anything you can think of.”

Bruce thinks for a moment. There are so many things he could talk about, and so many things he shouldn’t. For one thing, he’s never spoken about Jason. To anyone. Even with Dick and Alfred, the only times Jason is ever brought up in conversation is when he’s off on another killing spree.

“Bruce?” Clark tilts his head curiously, like he’s scanning Bruce over for some kind of malfunction. Except he really is malfunctioning from the inside out because he has no idea where to even start. It’s not every day he gets asked such personal questions. Diana knows about Dick, and he guesses she knows about Jason too, but she’s never pushed him to talk about any of it. Perhaps it’s because she gets that same look in her eyes, the one Bruce always gets whenever he thinks about Jason for too long. They’ve come to a silent understanding over certain things, which would have scared Bruce in the past. Now, it’s just comforting to know there’s someone like him.

He’s been silent for too long. Clark is waiting, and the more he waits, the more he’ll realize it was a bad idea to ask in the first place.

_“So even you’ve got people like that in your life.”_

Bruce swallows down his pride and guilt, and starts launching into a story of a boy dressed in yellow, green and red spandex, and how they saved the world one bad guy at a time.

 

 **4\. I’m** **sorry for hurting you, for scarring you, for trying to play God. I let my ego get the best of me, and for that, I will never forgive myself.**

Clark starts spending more time at the lake house, and Bruce starts opening up more about Dick and Jason. At first it was just an obligation. If Clark asked, then Bruce would answer. Simple as that. Over time though, it became sort of… normal, in a sense. It was almost like an exchange. Every time Clark spent a whole day at the lake house, Bruce would take an hour out of his day to regale in a new story, from Dick learning how to punch (and fail) for the first time, to Jason trying to do a backflip across two building ledges and ending with a broken ankle and the biggest smile imaginable on his face.

Bruce almost admits to Alfred that he finds Clark’s presence welcoming. Which is a surprise, because when was the last time he felt like that? Even Clark can’t help radiating these god-awful rays of happiness. It’s like he’s bleeding himself everywhere, lighting up parts of Bruce’s all too dark life.

It becomes obvious right away that Clark is, essentially, lonely. He doesn’t get out into the real world that much, and if he does, it’s always for a quick fly-by over Metropolis or Gotham. And always at night too, when he was least likely to be spotted by the general public. He says it helps him to think, to clear his mind. After all, no one would think to look for Superman in the dark of night. Not even his ghost. No, Superman is a god, an angel, a being of light. He doesn’t lurk around in the shadows, waiting to pop out like a child’s worst nightmare. He’s the hero that fights off the nightmares, nightmares like Batman who thrive in the darkness. Maybe at one point, they might have made a good team. If Batman hadn’t tried to kill Superman first.

That’s another thing, too: Bruce hasn’t thought about _that_ in a long, long time. It’s like the events with Lex and Doomsday have erased themselves completely from his mind. Of course, not everything can be forgotten so quickly. The guilt always came back in the end.

.

He feels something soft beneath his fingertips, almost feathery like. As he starts to expand his awareness, he identifies that soft, feathery feeling as bedsheets. He opens his eyes, blinks through the haziness around his vision, and finds himself staring up at two blurry images that might or might not be faces. The second one moves out of his field of vision, somewhere off to his right where he can’t see it unless he turns his whole head. Which he really doesn’t feel like doing because everything hurts all over.  

“Master Bruce, back from the dead are we?” That voice is far too judging for it to belong to anyone but Alfred. He tries to sit up, but there’s a weight along his whole midsection that forces him to flop back down and grumble to the ceiling. “No use in moving, Master Bruce. You acquired three bullets to both your sternum and gut.” Alfred moves away for a moment, muttering, “Which no one _normal_ would have survived except for _you_.” He comes back with a glass of water and a straw.

“Thank you, Alfred,” Bruce says, and he means it too. He knows how much he worries Alfred. Maybe that worry has gotten a bit less since the formation of the Justice League, but Bruce knows he’s the reason for each and every grey hair Alfred has earned over the years.

Apparently Alfred isn’t done with his little rant. “Not to mention how you almost _fell to your death_ if it wasn’t for the fact that Master Clark was in the neighborhood.”

“What?” He almost spills water all over himself as he tries to sit up again. He makes it at least halfway up if not for the help of two steadying hands at his back.

“Easy, Master Bruce,” Alfred murmurs.

“Really Bruce, you’re in no condition to—” And _that_ voice is new.

Bruce finally glares to the figure on his right, clad in only jeans and a burgundy t-shirt. He looks immaculate as ever with his stupid, fluffy hair and creamy white skin. It annoys Bruce to no end.

“What happened to hiding your days away in Kansas?” He can’t help sneering. No, that’s not what he wanted to say. He didn’t mean for it to come out that way, and yet he meant it all the same.

Perhaps it’s the way Clark’s looking at him, eyes a little sad (but not pitying or cruel) as he slowly realizes how vulnerable, how _human_ , the man before him is. Everyone in the League has superpowers in some form or another, so Bruce understands how easy it is for everyone to forget that he’s only human. He’s not an Amazonian warrior, he wasn’t struck by lightning, and his body certainly wasn’t half deformed to the point that he needed state of the art robotic prosthetics. He’s just a man in a suit with a fancy car and some cool gadgets. That’s all.

Or maybe this has nothing to do with Bruce’s pride. Maybe he’s annoyed because Clark may have just exposed himself to the world when he’s clearly in no state to be in it. And once again, it’s all Bruce’s fault. When is anything not Bruce’s fault?

“Master Bruce, need I remind you that it was Master Clark who quite literally _saved your life_?”

Clark sends an apologetic look to Alfred, like _he’s_ the one trying to push everyone away with a few cruel remarks. That’s what Bruce does best after all. “It’s okay Alfred. Here, why I don’t take over for a while? You should go rest, it’s been a long night.”

Alfred looks like he wants to protest, but one shared look with Clark is enough for him to understand that arguing really is useless. It’s not often Alfred relinquishes control of the reigns like that. He’ll at least put up more of a fight before giving in. Bruce isn’t sure what this says about Clark and Alfred’s relationship.

Once Alfred leaves, it’s like a stillness has fallen over the room. It occurs to Bruce that Clark is waiting, probably for whatever nasty words Bruce has next on the tip of his tongue. And _oh_ , is he tempted to say them. One word and Clark would be gone from this room. Two more and he might even be gone from Bruce’s life altogether. It’s that easy to push him away, and yet Bruce doesn’t want to. He knows he should, because he really doesn’t deserve all the kindness Clark has given him tonight. Clark has given up so much already.

“I’m not actually _back_ , if… that’s what you were… wondering…” Clark says, words growing quiet and trailing off towards the end. When Bruce doesn’t respond, he fidgets on the spot. “Bruce—”

“I didn’t think you were, but it’s bad enough that you _did_ show up like that. Superman may not be back yet, but neither is Clark Kent, and I think that’s going to be a little harder to explain to your fiancée and co-workers at the Planet.”

“I wasn’t—”

“Once people get curious, there’s no stopping them. You of all people should know that, Clark,” Bruce says tiredly. He wants to sleep and forget about this whole night.

“…I know what I’m doing Bruce.”

“Do you Clark? _Do you_? Because if people find out—”

“For god’s sakes, I was wearing a _hoodie_ Bruce! I doubt people would have made the connection to Superman, much less Clark Kent.” At that, he looks down. “And besides, he’s supposed to be dead in the ground, remember?” It’s like a light switch was flipped on and is finally bringing illumination to Clark’s face. Underneath all the wistful smiles and that easy-going demeanor of his, there’s a hardness set in place that Bruce doesn’t remember being there. It’s a painful reminder of what once was and what never will be again, and he’s the sole reason for it. He’s the reason Clark Kent can’t have a normal life, and for that, he’ll never forgive himself. Did he really think telling a few stories here and there, even offering up his home, would automatically fix things?  

Clark Kent may be standing by Bruce’s bedside, but Clark Kent was also legally dead. He can’t go back to working at the Daily Planet, and he can’t publicly marry Lois Lane if he wanted to. It doesn’t matter if he wants to do it, because the reality is that he simply can’t. Even Batman, world’s greatest detective, wouldn’t be able to come up with an explanation as to why Clark Kent was suddenly alive and well and hadn’t aged a day.

Bruce knows as much as the next vigilante how valuable that civilian identity is. It’s what allows him and Diana and the rest of the League members to have at least some semblance of a normal life. It’s what makes them _human_ , even if some of them physically aren’t. There are days when even Bruce doesn’t feel himself. Some days he’s Bruce Wayne, and other days he’s a mix of both Bruce and Batman. And then there are the days when he’s Doomsday, and he’s the one stabbing Superman in the chest. He’s the one that puts Clark Kent in the ground while leaving the rest of the world with an empty coffin in Superman’s memory. This is one of those days.

Not only has he taken this crucial part of Clark’s life away, but he’s also scarred it. The identity known as Clark Kent has been marked—tainted—by Bruce’s very hands. The scar left by Doomsday may be long gone, but the scar left by Bruce? Not even Clark’s super healing can get rid of that. No, this scar is permanent. It’s a curse, and one that can’t be broken either.

He’s not sure how much of this actually shows on his face, but when he meets Clark’s eyes, Bruce knows he knows. He’s normally much better at hiding his emotions, but ever since Clark entered his life, he’s been slipping more often than he’d like.

“Bruce—”

“Alfred worries far too much.” Bruce makes a show of smoothing out his sheets. “He may seem like he supports my nightly endeavors, but deep down he hates it.” He frowns, then looks right at Clark. “I shouldn’t have put you in a position that forced you to come out like that. Clearly you’re not ready, but then again, I’d hate to be the literal death of Alfred. So thank you for tonight.” He tries to sound like he actually means it, but the words come out stiff and overly polite, like he’s making a speech at one of his charity galas.

Clark’s face has become conflicted. There’s a million other things he wants to say, but he settles for an awkward, “Um, you’re welcome.”

This is the most Bruce can do. He can be annoyed all he wants, and he can blame himself for every single goddamn thing, but in the end, what he wants doesn’t matter. This isn’t about him anymore. There’s more at stake, others have become involved, and the world is growing larger. This isn’t Bruce’s world anymore.

 

 **5\. I’m** **sorry. For everything.**

“I went to see Lois today.”

The only response Bruce gives is the pause in his typing. It’s a long pause, one that forces the silence to drag on between them. From the corner of his eye, he sees Clark fidgeting on the nearby couch. It used to be Bruce’s couch, for the nights when he spent far too long in the Bat Cave and couldn’t physically make the trip upstairs to his bedroom. Somehow it’s now become Clark’s couch.

(“Clark, don’t be an idiot. There are plenty of rooms in this house. You don’t need to sleep on that ratty old thing,” Bruce said, gesturing at the worn down couch. Granted, it wasn’t as old as the one back in Clark’s Smallville home, but that didn’t mean it was any more comfortable.  

“No, it’s fine! Besides, I… like it down here. It’s nice. Homely. In a weird, bat kind of way. But it’s still nice!”)

He’s afraid Clark is becoming too much like him. It’s okay for Bruce to prefer the company of bats compared to real, breathing people, but Clark isn’t Bruce. He’s Superman, and Superman doesn’t hide in the dark when the world becomes too much for him. He’s not supposed to enjoy the solitude of the Bat Cave, and yet here he is. Although now that Bruce thinks about it, Smallville and the Bat Cave aren’t all that different. One just happens to have real, natural sunlight. And a lack of bats.

“I see,” Bruce finally says.

“She… took it surprisingly well. I mean, she didn’t try to attack me with a shovel like mom.” Clark smiles at the memory, but then he frowns at the ground. “But Lois, she… she cried. A lot. I wasn’t expecting her to cry so much.”

“What did you expect? You’ve been back for months and you never even told her.” He doesn’t mean for it to sound like he’s accusing Clark of anything, but frankly, what else is he supposed to say?

“She gave back the engagement ring,” Clark continues, voice flat as a sheet of paper.

Bruce turns his head by a fraction. Now _that_ he wasn’t expecting.

“She said she couldn’t do it. I don’t blame her though,” Clark adds hurriedly. He looks up at Bruce. His face is unnaturally still, as if he doesn’t know how to react anymore. But one thing’s for certain: he’s tired. Not tired in the sense that he’s given up, but Bruce can see how much this is already taking a toll on Clark. “She’s carried me around for so long, Bruce. I think when she saw me, she felt relieved.” He glances down at his hands. He opens and closes them, like he’s just trying them out for the first time. “She carried me around for almost three years.”

“It’s like I said: once you love someone, you never really forget them.”

“But she could have, Bruce. She could have forgotten me at any time, and yet she didn’t.” Clark sounds less awed and more bitter by that revelation.

Bruce frowns, confused. He turns his chair all the way around. “Isn’t that what you wanted? To not be forgotten?”

“But not like that!” Clark almost shouts, tone indignant like that of a child. He’s no longer sitting on the couch.

“Then what is it you want?” Bruce asks, surprised by how calm that came out. If this was three years ago, he’d already be reaching for his Batarangs in the nearby drawer. But somehow, he’s confident Clark isn’t going to hurt him or blow up the Bat Cave. Clark is every bit human as he is not.

Clark is shaking. His hands are curled into white-knuckled fists. “I don’t know, okay? I don’t know what I want. I thought I didn’t want to be forgotten, but now that I’ve seen it, I wish… I wish she had, Bruce!” He takes a wobbly step forward. Bruce remains perfectly still. “I didn’t want things to be like this! I didn’t want her to—” He chokes up. At first Bruce thinks he’s trying to hold back from breaking down completely, but then he starts gasping for breath. He clutches at his chest and stumbles backwards.

“Clark? Clark!” Bruce rushes forward. He grabs Clark by the arm, but the man is already sinking towards the ground. Bruce tries to steady the descent as much as he can, until he finds himself practically hugging Clark. “Clark, you need to breathe, okay? I don’t have any paper bags around here, so you have to breathe on your own.” He adjusts his hold so that Clark’s head is resting on his chest, then shuffles backwards until they’re both leaning against the couch. He doesn’t know how long they’ll be here, so they might as well get comfortable for now.

“Breathe, Clark. Or you’re going to suck up all the oxygen from the room,” Bruce instructs patiently. He waits until the tremors subside and Clark’s skin becomes less clammy. He wasn’t even aware Clark could get panic attacks, which goes to show how little Bruce really knows about Kryptonian biology.

He estimates about fifteen minutes have passed before Clark starts to regain control of his breathing. His skin isn’t breaking out into a cold sweat anymore, which is also good. 

“S-Sorry,” Clark stutters out.

“Don’t apologize for something you can’t control,” Bruce murmurs. He rubs Clark’s back to try and further steady his breathing.

“I just… I don’t know what came over me. I don’t think that’s ever happened to me before.” Clark tilts his chin up so he’s looking at Bruce. “Is that what you call a panic attack?” He asks, voice so innocent that Bruce almost laughs right in his face.

He coughs instead. “Yes Clark, that was a panic attack.” It’s like he’s talking to a child. Except, well… Clark _is_ a child. What most humans experience, Clark just doesn’t. He’ll never know what it’s like to have the flu or a simple cold, or even a bad scrape on the knee. Does Clark even know basic first aid? Did his parents ever teach him, or was it just one of those things that didn’t come with raising a child from another planet?

“Well congratulations, you’ve experienced your first panic attack. How do you feel?” Bruce asks, although it’s more of a disguised way of asking several questions at once: How are you feeling? Do you feel like you’re going to go into another state of panic? Do I have to call for Alfred? _Do I need to rush you to the hospital_?

“Not.. good. I feel kind of… tired? Is that also normal?”

Bruce hums. “Low blood sugar. I think I have some crackers lying around, so lemme just—” He’s about to unwind himself from Clark, when he tightens his fist in Bruce’s shirt.

“No, don’t go. I’ll be fine.”

Bruce frowns. “I don’t know how Kryptonians deal with panic attacks, but here on Earth, normal people experience low blood sugar. Hence, _food_.” And yet, he makes no visible effort to stand up and leave. Instead he settles himself around Clark and lets him continue to use Bruce as a body pillow. He doesn’t know why he stays, when clear facts and his own better judgment tells him that he should be doing something else. At the very least, he should go and grab one of the thousands of unhealthy sports drinks he keeps down here.

The only sounds in the cave are their off-beat breathing, as well as the occasional flutter of bats. Bruce sighs heavily. He does not need this right now. He never _asked_ for Clark to just invade his life like this, and he never asked to have his life exposed like an old black and white film. But maybe, in a way, that’s his penance. If he’s going to truly be sorry for everything he’s done to Clark, whether intentional or not, then this is just one more thing he has to do. He can’t fix everything, but if Clark needs him to be the literal embodiment of a crutch, then that’s what he’ll be. He’ll visit Martha more, continue to strengthen the Justice League, even reveal the deepest parts of his soul if that’s what Clark needs. 

Clark’s breathing becomes so slow that Bruce thinks he may have fallen asleep. He considers maneuvering his way out and plopping Clark on the couch, but even with Bruce’s strength, he’s not sure he can do it smoothly enough without waking Clark up.

“Bruce? What are you doing?” Clark asks, having noticed Bruce’s awkward movements.

“What’s it look like I’m doing? You’re _heavy_ ,” Bruce complains.

“Sorry.” He doesn’t sound sorry. In fact, he actually burrows himself deeper into Bruce’s side.

Bruce sighs. “I’m not your body pillow, Clark.”

“I know that.” Clark stretches up, and just when Bruce thinks he’s finally moving, he does the complete opposite instead.

Bruce freezes. “Clark.”

“Hmm?” He hums lazily.

“ _What are you doing_?”

“Getting comfortable.” Clark’s head, which was previously on Bruce’s chest, is now settled in the crook between his neck and shoulder. He can feel Clark breathing against his neck, which is making the hairs on his skin stick up in an electrifying sort of way.

“Bruce, relax.”

“I am relaxed.” He’s not. Not when he can feel the amused vibrations from Clark’s voice running through his whole body. This is not how he expected this to go.  

“You’re not. You’re _never_ relaxed,” Clark amends.

He could stop this. He could end this right now. A simple excuse about unfinished work would suffice. Even bringing up Lois would do the trick.

But he doesn’t do any of that. He gives into it. He actually lets himself relax and settle comfortably against Clark. There’s no decision making, no analyzation, no nothing. It’s as simple and natural as waking up in the morning, because that’s just what people do. This is just what Bruce and Clark do.

It scares him. He’s getting too close, and he knows it. _This is not how he expected this to go._

 

**+1. I’m sorry that I’m not sorry – Clark Kent.**

Clark’s noticed it for a while now. Maybe not right away, but over time, he’s started keeping track of it. Bruce thinks he won’t notice, but that’s the thing about Bruce: he’s not as stealthy as he thinks he is.

All this time, Bruce has been _apologizing_ to him. Which is absurd, because there shouldn’t be anything for him to apologize for. Did Bruce try to kill Clark at one point? Yes, he did. But honestly, a simple apology would have sufficed. Clark didn’t need him to go through such lengths just to show how sorry he was. And he would have forgotten about the whole thing too, if Bruce hadn’t tried to bring it up at every possible moment.

It was the night Bruce was shot, the night Clark thought he had lost everything all over again. The moment he woke up and started talking, Clark knew. He doesn’t know why he didn’t see it before, but one glance at Bruce’s hard-creased face was enough for him. It was almost like a flickering slideshow, because at each instant a different emotion would appear, never lasting long enough for Clark to analyze and think it over. Bruce didn’t need to say anything. Probably because there was nothing he could have said that would have shown how sorry he was. And not just for one single thing, but for _everything_. It was scary, seeing a man weighed down by all that guilt and pain.

And yet despite all of that, Bruce still let Clark depend on him. He’s been depending on Bruce this whole time, even in death. He doesn’t really know what to think of that, but there’s one thing Clark does know: that Bruce is kind. No matter how much the world tries to tear him down, he still showed kindness to it. There was still a tiny bit of hope hidden beneath that hard exterior of his, and no amount of cruel, sarcastic remarks was going to erase that. Clark’s learned over time that that’s just a cover, something to trick people into thinking Bruce was this terrible person. But he gives and he gives and he gives, and that’s what makes him such a selfless person. It’s what makes Bruce, Bruce.

But that’s the thing about kindness: you never leave any room for yourself. It’s always about the other people.

So this time, Clark will be kind one. He knows this won’t be easy, because if Bruce is too stubborn to die, he’ll be too stubborn to accept Clark’s words. But he’s going to try, because that’s what you do for someone you care deeply about.

“I’m sorry.”

Bruce knows the moment he says it. Clark can see it in the way his whole body tenses, already in defensive mode but not quite prepared for what’s to come. It’s a crack in his impenetrable shield, and Clark is going to break that thing down if it’s the last thing he does.  

He plows on, because if he doesn’t get this out now, then he’ll never get the chance. “I’m sorry… that I’m not sorry. I’m not sorry that I died—” Bruce flinches at that “—because I think… I think it forced you to become the man you once were. And in doing so, you went on to form the Justice League. You found Barry and Victor. You wouldn’t have done that if I were still alive, because the old Bruce Wayne would have been appalled at so much unchecked power. _You did that_ , because I died. I had to die for it to happen, and I’m glad for it.

“And… I’m not sorry for the fact that it may have brought us closer. I got to learn things about you. The real you. I didn’t know the real you before, because I never gave you the chance you deserved. That one I’m actually sorry for, but I’m not sorry for everything else.” There, he did it. He said what he had to say. Now it’s all up to Bruce at this point.

After what feels like hours have passed, Bruce finally says, “Is that all?”

“Um, yes. That’s all.”

The only response Clark gets is silence. He can’t tell what Bruce is thinking at all. There’s a slight twitch in his jaw, but other than that, he’s completely perfected the art of having no facial expressions.

“A simple ‘okay’ would suffice.”

For some reason, it’s those words that finally bring out a reaction from Bruce. His eyes are the first to react, with the way his pupils grow and dilate. Then his whole face hardens, and the impenetrable shield is back up.

“How can you expect me to say ‘okay’—” He spits the word out like it’s poison in his mouth “—when clearly it’s not?”

Now it’s Clark’s turn to be stunned into silence. He opens his mouth but no words come out. He ends up leaving his mouth open for too long, which Bruce takes as a green light to continue his little speech.

“And since when do you get to act like the martyr here? You went and _died_ , Clark. And it wasn’t like you went into a coma for a couple weeks. You were _gone_ for almost three years, and I— We had to live with that. Diana and I had to make do with what we had, and it didn’t get any easier. People _need_ Superman. Batman only exists because an eight-year old boy decided to have extreme mommy and daddy issues. I’m whatever Gotham needs me to be. If I need to be the villain in order for people to feel safe, then fine, I’ll be that. But you can’t. The moment you stop living is the moment people lose hope, and hope isn’t all that easy to find these days.

“Even now, you’re not really back. You’re just hiding away from the world. You don’t know what I’ve seen in the time you were gone. And you think I _wanted_ that? You think I _wanted_ you to die just so I could be a little less arrogant and a little bit nicer? Just who do you think I am, Clark?”

By the end, Bruce is breathing hard. Those words took a lot out of him, and it’s clear he’s been holding back from Clark since day one. But maybe there’s more to it. Maybe there’s a lot Bruce hasn’t been saying, because he chooses to keep everything inside for the sake of others. He remembers Alfred recalling how serious Bruce was after his parent’s death. Even as a child it was rare for him to smile, which made making friends twice as hard.

“Maybe I should have re-phrased that better,” is what Clark ends up saying. It’s a weak attempt at humor, and he knows it.

Bruce glares at him, but it’s better than being shouted at.

“Look, Bruce—”

“Don’t.” He holds a hand up. “Just…” He closes his eyes and inhales deeply. When he opens them, his face appears slightly more composed. “Just forget I even said all of that. It’s clear I wasn’t really thinking when I decided to open my mouth like that.” The words sound rehearsed, too robotic even. He’s trying to distance himself even further.

“So you want me to forget instead?” Clark shoots back. He can feel the furrow between his brows deepen.

Bruce shifts a bit. “Yes,” he answers, but he sounds unsure of himself. It’s like he’s having second thoughts but keeps telling himself he needs to go through with it no matter what.

And Clark is… kind of pissed, to be honest. So Bruce thinks Clark is the one being selfish? Pot, kettle, black. Bruce didn’t even _ask_ Clark. He gave an order, and then expected Clark to follow it. Like hell Clark will do that, not when Bruce just gave him the biggest confession with more words than his monosyllabic vocabulary will allow.

“No,” Clark says.

“Clark, I’m not asking—”

“No, you’re not.”

They hold each other’s gaze, steady and unrelenting. While Clark is just trying to hold onto this little stare down, Bruce is as focused and calm as ever. To him, Clark is another case just waiting to be solved. Except this time, Bruce can’t quite reach the solution he needs to finally crack the darn thing. But the moment he does, his heartbeat picks up. His face shows no visible change, but it’s clear he must have seen something in Clark’s own features. It had to have been something obvious, otherwise he wouldn’t have reacted the way he did.

He’s done it: he’s solved the puzzle.

And so it’s Bruce who cracks first, sighing and running a hand through his normally gelled back hair. Tonight his hair is loose and ruffled, not as neat as the usual hairstyle. Clark thinks it suits him better, makes him look more natural. More real. This is the real Bruce Wayne, not the one that appears in the tabloids and at charity galas. The real Bruce Wayne doesn’t smile so easily, because he holds his guilt and sins so close to his chest that not even Superman can pry them away. He’s a man, but he’s so much more than that. He’s broken in some ways, but he still has hope. He acts like he doesn’t care for your wellbeing, when in reality, he’s already thinking of ten different ways he can improve it. And most importantly: he’s scared. He holds his distance from others, because he believes that if he gets too close, he’ll destroy all things precious to him.

“Clark, you can’t love me. You don’t want to.”

“And why’s that?” Clark asks calmly, despite the thunderous beating of his heart. Was he really displaying that much? Was he _that_ obvious?

“You can’t use me as a replacement for Lois.”

No, Bruce can’t replace her. Lois will always hold a special place in Clark’s heart. But things have changed now. If he thinks about her too much, his breathing will pick up and his mind will grow hazy again, and so he doesn’t. He keeps the thinking to a minimum, only on the nights when he needs the quietness of space to drown out all the noises from down below. The world just became too much for him sometimes, but he could always count on Bruce’s presence and the peacefulness of the lake house to keep him stable.

Bruce is the one constant in his life that has stayed pretty constant so far, and Clark wants to keep it that way. If Bruce wants him to disregard his feelings, he’ll do just that. He’ll do anything if it means he can keep Bruce by his side. But if there’s even the slightest chance that Bruce might love him back, then why the hell would he _not_ fight for this?  

“I never said you were a replacement. I know you’re not Lois,” Clark answers, honest and upfront.

Bruce almost looks disapproving, like a parent reprimanding a child for saying the wrong thing. And then Clark realizes: _that was the wrong thing_. Bruce just gave Clark and a clear and easy opening to end this once and for all, but Clark had gone and done the complete opposite instead.

Good.

So Bruce gives him another opening. “And I don’t do relationships. They only get in the way of my work,” he says, just to add to the list of ‘Everything Wrong with Bruce Wayne’.  

“You have plenty of relationships. There’s Alfred, Dick, Jason, Diana… Shall I continue?”

“…I’m not good with words.”

“I’ve noticed. But then again, actions tend to speak louder than words.”

Bruce visibly flinches. So Clark knew about the apologies. Figures. “Oh and also, I don’t—”

“You know you’re going to run out of these ridiculous reasons eventually. I know you too well for that at this point.”

“….”

Clark laughs. He’s defeated the undefeatable at last. “Come here.”

“Why?” Bruce asks suspiciously.

“Just come here.”

Bruce walks over, but he’s still on high alert. “I’m here.”

“So I see.” Clark closes the distance between them. Bruce looks ready to bolt at any second, so Clark does what any person would do: he holds Bruce’s hand. His skin jumps under Clark’s grasp, but he doesn’t pull away. There’s still the underlying expectation that Clark is going to jump him though.

“Bruce, relax.”

“I _am_ relaxed,” Bruce grits out.

“And like I said before: you’re never relaxed.”

“Are you going to kiss me?”

Clark blinks, taken aback by the abrupt line of questioning. “Do you want me to?” He asks carefully. He wasn’t really planning on doing anything more. He wasn’t even planning on this becoming a huge thing, but it did.

There’s a slight hesitation before Bruce says, “I’m not sure.”

“Okay. Then I won’t.”

Bruce stares at him. He’s not smiling. He’s far from it actually, but there’s a softer side to his face compared to before. He’s opening up, slow and steady in that calculative way he is with everything. There’s still a bit of fear underneath it all, but he’s trying.

“I’m not going to be good at this.” Ah, and there it is. That’s what Clark was waiting for.

“I didn’t say I was either. The closest romantic connection I’ve had with so far is my _coffin_.” It’s true: that thing really is beautiful. He almost regrets punching a hole straight through it. Almost.

And for some reason, that’s what finally startles a laugh out of Bruce.

****

**_Epilogue_ **

Barry’s practically buzzing under his suit. Like seriously, if he keeps this up he may just cause a power outage, and Bruce isn’t too keen on hauling out the generator for the Bat Cave _again_.

Barry must see it in Bruce’s disgruntled expression. He rolls his eyes. “Relax, Bruce. I’m not going to cause a power outage.”

“ _Yet_ ,” Bruce mumbles under his breath. Diana elbows him in the chest, and even through the suit it still causes reverberations underneath.

“And why did he wait until now to finally reveal himself?” Arthur Curry asks, arms folded in that powerhouse stance of his. It took a couple months, but Bruce finally convinced Arthur into joining their little ragtag team. He’s heard a lot about Superman, but he has yet to actually meet the god himself. Until today, that is.

“Relax, sea-man,” Victor teases. Beside him, Barry snickers. It earns them both a well-deserved glare.

“Do _not_ call me that,” Arthur says, not for the first nor last time.

“Well then what else are we supposed to call you? King Triton?” Barry asks. It’s meant to be a serious question—they really do need to come up with a codename for Arthur—but the quivering of his lips says otherwise.

Arthur looks extremely unimpressed. “ _The Little Mermaid_ , Allen? Really?”

“Would you prefer something else then?” Barry shoots back.

“How about Aquaman?”

They all turn with the exception of Bruce. He doesn’t need to, not when that voice has been ingrained into his bones from day one. When he does finally turn (it’s more of a slight angling of the head), he finds himself rolling his eyes. He always knew Clark was one for dramatic entrances, but the way he steps out of the darkness and into the light, hair perfectly gelled back and face clean shaven? He’s _immaculate_.

Barry smacks his forehead with the palm of his hand. “Aquaman, of course!” He turns to Victor. “Why didn’t _I_ think of that?”

“Because you lack the skills to think,” Arthur answers for him.

Ignoring that, Barry asks, “So is it official then? Is it Aquaman?” He’s buzzing again.

“It’s not… bad,” he decides, eyes locked on Clark’s face as he says that.

Clark is beaming. That’s a point for Clark Kent.

Bruce steps forward, but not too close that it would be deemed inappropriate. It’s just enough for him to really get a look at Clark in the suit. He’s practically glowing in it.

“How does it feel?” Bruce asks, checking it over for any discrepancies. There shouldn’t be any—he made it after all.

“Good. It feels… _right_ ,” Clark replies earnestly.

 _Well, you certainly look good_ is what he wants to say. And he does look good. The suit’s design is no different from the first one, except with a few modifications here and there. It’s flexible, lighter, but not at the cost of lowering the suit’s defenses. Overall, it should allow Clark to move and fight more fluidly without the weight holding him back. Not that it did before, but if it improves Clark’s chances in a fight, then Bruce is willing to try it.

This is yet another thing Bruce can do for Clark (and maybe, in time, start to love him as well.)

“I can’t believe it. This is so awesome,” Barry says.

“It’ll be good to finally have our own secret weapon now,” Victor agrees, nodding.

“So you are back?” Diana asks, the corners of her lips already curling up into a grin.  

Clark takes a moment to let his gaze roam over all of them. If he lingers just tad longer on Bruce, no one mentions it. “Yeah,” he answers, “I’m back.”

Barry fist bumps the air, Victor nods approvingly, and Arthur’s mouth twitches into what might resemble a proud smile.

“Yeah, I’m back,” he repeats again, this time looking directly at Bruce.

Bruce stares back. _Yes, yes you are_.

**Author's Note:**

> You can follow me on tumblr [here](http://floralwasteland.tumblr.com)


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